Pancakes
by mooyoo
Summary: Nothing much. Michael & Lincoln make breakfast.


**Title:** Pancakes

**Rating: **G

**Summery:** Nothing much. Michael & Lincoln make breakfast.

**Spoilers:** None

**Disclaimer:** Paul Scheuring and a whole lot of other people who aren't me own _Prison Break_.

-

"Michael," Lincoln whispered, leaning in over the sleeping form, the repeated it louder and kicked the bed frame gently when the other boy didn't move.

"What?" Michael's whine was muffled by his pillow, and when he didn't open his eyes, Lincoln kicked again.

"Get up."

"Whyyyyy?" Michael whined again and rolled away from Lincoln's prodding.

"C'mon, get up, we're making breakfast. Let's go," he said, clapping his hands loudly, and ripped the covers off of his brother, who grumbled and curled up into a ball, turning his face completely into the pillow.

Lincoln was sure that most little kids were energetic and probably up running around at the crack of dawn; he knew at least that he certainly was when he was younger. But at seven-years-old, his brother was most definitely _not_ a morning person. There were constant battles between the two of them when Lincoln got him up in the morning for school, and God help anyone who tried to wake him before 9am on a weekend.

Which was exactly what Lincoln was attempting, and regretting it more and more by the minute, especially when Michael pulled the pillow over his head and gave a half-hearted kick in Lincoln's general direction.

"Mike, I told you about this last night."

Michael grumbled under the pillow.

"And you said you'd get up and help!"

Michael didn't move and Lincoln knew he was pretending to be asleep, so he picked up a stuffed animal from the floor and tossed it at his brother.

"I'm gonna go start the pancake batter. If you're not up and in the kitchen in five minutes, I'm coming back in here and dragging your butt out of bed, got it?"

"Meh."

Lincoln took that as an affirmative and bounded into the kitchen. He was still pulling ingredients out of the refrigerator when Michael stumbled sleepily into the kitchen several minutes later rubbing at his eyes and nearly tripping over a sock that was only half-pulled onto his foot.

"_Finally_," Lincoln grinned at him and Michael yawned in reply. "Grab a spoon."

Michael pulled a wooden spoon out of a large jar on the counter and handed to Lincoln, and the older boy tossed him a loaf of bread in return.

"You do the toast, I'm going to start the pancakes."

" 'Kay."

Michael placed two slices of bread in the toaster and then turned to watch his brother dole out flour and milk using only a coffee mug to measure.

"How do you do that?" the younger boy asked with a hint of awe as Lincoln eyed the mug full of milk carefully before pouring it into the bowl.

"What?"

"How d'you know how much to use without measuring?"

"Practice," Lincoln grinned and cracked an egg on the side of the bowl. "You make something enough times, eventually you can just eyeball it."

"Cool." Michael slid onto a stool in front of the counter and leaned his chin onto one of his hands.

Lincoln began mixing the batter while Michael watched. When the ingredients were more or less blended together he swiped a finger through it and brought it up to his lips, licking the batter off. After a moment Michael reached over hesitantly and did the same. Lincoln watched him for a second, then grabbed a small spoon and ran it through the bowl, bringing it out covered with pancake batter and presented it to Michael. His brother grinned and took the spoon, sticking his tongue out to catch the stray drops hanging off the end before they fell to the counter.

"Okay, pancakes, toast, what else should we do?"

"Bacon?" Michael suggested cheerily in between licks across the spoon, finally beginning to wake up. "Mom always makes bacon with my pancakes."

"That's just 'cause she makes smiley faces out of them for you," Lincoln rolled his eyes and began mixing the batter. "You never even eat most of it. And anyway, I can't make bacon."

"Why not?"

"'Cause I don't know how." Michael blinked as if he couldn't understand the concept and Lincoln got the distinct feeling that he was being scrutinized by his younger brother.

"Don't you just… put it in a pan on the stove or something?"

"Yeah, but it's not that simple, man, you have to know how long to cook it for. Meat's a tricky thing to make, you can get sick if you don't cook it right." Lincoln waved the wooden spoon vaguely and Michael's eyes widened slightly.

"Really?"

"Yup. And since we don't want to kill her, we're going to stay away from the bacon and ham and all that right?" Michael didn't reply, but looked back at him with a mildly stunned expression and Lincoln could almost see his brother's mind turning over the idea.

"Mike, I'm kidding, man, calm down. No one's gonna die from uncooked meat." He gave his brother a half-smile and Michael returned it reluctantly, straightening up on his stool.

"Okay, what about cereal?" Lincoln suggested, pulling a box of Frosted Flakes from a shelf above the stove. Michael wrinkled his nose and gave him a look that said _are you kidding?_ and Lincoln shoved the cereal box back on the shelf. "Yeah, you're right, that's no good."

"Eggs? Scrambled eggs? That's easy, right?" Michael piped up hopefully and Lincoln snapped his fingers.

"Good, good idea." Lincoln handed Michael the carton of eggs. "Don't get any shell in the bowl."

He could see Michael's slightly shocked expression, his eyes widening again at being given the great responsibility of scrambling the eggs, and Lincoln smiled lightly as he went back to the bowl of pancake batter to give it a final few hard stirs. He greased up a pan on the stove and watched as his brother carefully cracked an egg open over a small bowl. Michael was staring hard at the egg with a furrowed brow and tight set to his jaw, looking like he was trying very hard not to spill any on the counter or let any of the shell slip into the bowl.

Lincoln turned his attention back to the pan on the stove in front of him and used the coffee mug now to pour two small circles of batter onto the bottom, watching as they spread and grew briefly until slowing to a stop from the heat just before touching one another. They were calm for a moment and then they began to bubble and the pan began to sizzle and Lincoln knew it was time to flip them. He flipped the first one when he heard the bread finish toasting with a loud _pop_ of the toaster, and was in the middle of flipping the second pancake when he heard Michael yelp and whirled around to see him clutching one of his fingers, looking panicked.

Lincoln dashed across the kitchen and grabbed his brother by the wrist, thrusting the small hand under the faucet in the sink and spinning the tap furiously to turn on the cold water.

"What happened?" he muttered frantically, staring at Michael's reddened finger under the steady beat of water.

"The toast got stuck," Michael said shakily, and Lincoln glanced up to see him struggling to hold tears back. "I was trying to get it out."

"So you just suck your hand in there?" Lincoln barked angrily and Michael shrunk back.

"I didn't know it'd be so hot."

Lincoln sighed and turned off the faucet, ripping off part of a paper towel to press against Michael's burnt finger. Michael curled his hand into a fist so he was able to hold the paper towel on with just the one hand, and followed his brother to stand in front of the toaster.

Lincoln inspected the piece of toast trapped within the claws of the old toaster carefully. "You can't just reach in there. There's other ways to get it out."

Lincoln flipped the toaster over and banged hard on the upturned bottom several times. The toast stayed put. He glanced at Michael, who looked up at him expectantly. Lincoln banged again, hard, on the bottom of the toaster and finally the toast fell out onto the counter, along with a large burst of crumbs.

"There!" Lincoln declared triumphantly, and Michael smiled sheepishly back at him, gripping the paper towel to his finger. "We'll, uh, clean that up later."

Turning back to the stove Lincoln slipped a spatula under the pancakes and moved them to a plate, then poured two more into the pan. He pulled another pan out and emptied the eggs into it.

He handed Michael another wooden spoon. "Stir."

Lincoln watched his brother carefully, making sure he didn't get to close to the burner on the stove. When the pancake batter was gone and the eggs were slightly overdone and one of the pieces of toast was a little more burnt than it should have been, Lincoln began loading everything onto plates and then the plates onto a tray and handed a cup of hot chocolate to his brother to carry.

They carried the food down the dark hallway and came to a stop in front of their mother's bedroom door. Lincoln balanced the tray on one hand and raised the other to knock loudly on the closed door, then opened it without waiting for a reply. He was sure his mother would still be asleep, despite all the noise they had made in the kitchen.

Sure enough, she lay on her stomach, sprawled across the bed with one foot sticking out from underneath the covers and her dark hair covering her face. Just like Michael, their mother could sleep like a log when given the opportunity, which wasn't often. Although she didn't put up quite the same fight as Michael each morning, she was rarely cheerful when woken up against her will, but both boys knew she wouldn't mind it this morning.

"Mom?" Michael called out gently, and her foot twitched before her head slowly rose off the bed a few moments later. She turned to look at them with half-closed eyes.

"Happy birthday!" the boys shouted, Michael shouting a bit louder than his brother as he bounced lightly up and down with enthusiasm, allowing bits of hot chocolate to spill over the sides of the cup.

Their mother smiled sleepily and rolled over, sitting up with a yawn and then gesturing the pair over. Lincoln placed the tray on the bed in front of her and Michael followed slowly behind, taking each step carefully to prevent any more hot chocolate from escaping the mug in his hands. After placing it on the nightstand next to his mother, she moved over to make room for him and he climbed into the bed next to her.

"We made you breakfast!" Michael declared happily and Lincoln laughed at the obvious statement as he sat down at the foot of the bed.

"I can see that," she smiled.

"Lincoln did most of it," Michael told her, giving his brother a quick grin.

"Michael made the eggs," Lincoln offered.

"Really," his mother said in mock surprise, turning to look down at her youngest son.

"All by himself," Lincoln replied and Michael beamed at him.

Lincoln watched the pair of them as his mother offered Michael some toast and he took it, leaning his head on her shoulder. She smiled and squeezed one of his hands, running her thumb over the back of it softly, and Lincoln felt a tug somewhere in his chest at the sight. She used to dote on him that way, when he was younger, used to give him adoring looks and gentle touches when he was the baby of the family. But their relationship changed when Michael came along and his father took off, and she began to look at him like he was an adult, relying on him in a way she hadn't before, and most of the time he was okay with that. He was too old to be fawned over the way Michael was, but sometimes when he watched his mother and brother together he missed being in Michael's place.

"Did you know Lincoln can make pancakes without even using a measuring cup?" Michael was babbling, wide-eyed, to his mother, and she looked up at Lincoln and gave him a grin and a wink, and he forgot about the ache in his chest.

**-end­-**


End file.
